Weakness
by Taylor Hayes
Summary: Sam is going through withdrawals from demon blood. Again. And Dean is trying to keep him sane. NOT WINCEST. Oneshot.


Weakness

a/n I love these brothers and hate how much they beat themselves up when anything happens to the other. Once again, I DO NOT WRITE WINCEST. This is just good, old, brotherly dependance. Enjoy!

As soon as they got back to the hotel, Sam spun on Dean. "Aren't you gonna say something? Quit watching me out of the corner of your eye like you're expecting me to demon out, again!"

Dean froze, shoulders tight, back to Sam. Then he groaned, "You're right. I'm sick and tired of walking on eggshells around you! Since we got here, you've been acting like you need a blood fix again!"

"What? Don't be a dick! You know damn well I haven't had any since Ruby!"

Dean's frown became more pronounced, as he muttered, "Demon bitch." Then he focused on Sam again. "You're right, okay? I know you're not hyped up on hellblood. But, have you looked at yourself today? You look like crap, man. You're shaking and sweating. You're giving off heat that I could feel from across the car. You keep getting pissed. You're twitching every which way! I don't know what's going on, but it's too much like when you were jonesing for demon juice, Sammy. Tell me the truth, does it feel like that?"

Sam avoided Dean's eyes and shoved his hands angrily into his pockets. "I dunno."

Dean raised an eyebrow, "I think you do. Now, should we try that again, Sammy?"

Sam glared, but he couldn't keep his foot from tapping. "Okay, yeah, I've been a little... jumpy. That doesn't mean I'm craving demon blood again!"

"Dude, go look in the friggin' mirror! I dunno how, I dunno why, but you are sure as hell going through withdrawal again!"

Sam angrily shook his head and stomped in to the bathroom. "I'm taking a shower!"

As soon as Sam was out of the room, Dean dropped to sit on the edge of the bed, face in hands, fighting to hold back tears and anger. He couldn't watch Sammy go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. It had just kept reminding Dean that Sam had picked that manipulative bitch Ruby over his own brother. And the whole damn thing with Famine had been five kinds of hell. Dean hadn't wanted to believe Famine, but he really was empty. He was beginning to doubt them both. He knew Sam wouldn't go back to the blood. But it felt like every day they were both a step closer to saying yes to Michael and Lucifer. They were losing faith in each other. And at the same time, their love for each other was growing. If they said yes, it wouldn't be for themselves, it would be for each other. Dean realized the trails of heat on his cheeks were tears.

He jerked upright as Sam's panicked yell rang out, "DEAN!"

He was across the room, slamming open the bathroom door in seconds. "Sammy?"

His baby brother was lying in a heap on the floor, long limbs curled up in the fetal position, shaking and crying and muttering, "Don't, Dean. Don't say it, Dean. Not again. God, Dean, please. I'm a monster, I'm a monster, I'm a monster."

Then the real Dean was there, cutting through whatever hallucination was tormenting Sam. Dean knelt down, pulling his brother's torso and head against Dean's chest and held him as tight as he could.

In a gentle voice that practically no one ever heard, he started talking. "I'm right here, Sammy. I'm right here. You're my baby bro and I love you and you aren't a monster. You're not. Do you remember that time Dad left us in that skanky motel for three weeks in Marquette? And we spent almost all our money at that arcade down the street? You and I got the highest scores on almost every damn game in that place. And we spent all the rest of the money Dad left us on burgers and pizza and ice cream sundaes every night. I just had chocolate sauce on mine, but you wanted every damn topping the place had. Remember, Sammy? And we spent three whole days at the local library while you read book after book, and I went stir crazy until I found out that they had videos and a viewing room. Do you remember how hard you laughed at me, how much you teased me when you found me watching West Side Story and singing along?"

By this time, the shaking was getting much worse, but Sam's eyes were bright and glued to Dean's face. "K-k-keep g-going-g-g, D-d-d-dean. Pl-l-lease."

Dean hugged his brother and dropped a rough kiss on damp, sweaty hair. "You got it, Sammy. We didn't bring enough clothes, and we were having too much fun to do laundry, so we decided to just buy some new stuff at that hippy thrift shop that smelled like dope. And we drove the guy who owned the place crazy by trying on all kinds of shit for hours, before we walked out with a few tees and a couple pairs of jeans each. And you secretly stole me that Metallica shirt that you gave me a couple days later, remember? And when you wanted to go back to that damn library again the next day, and I told you I didn't want to go. And you teased me, said you'd watch West Side Story with me, and sing along and pat my back while I cried at the end? And I called you a bitch, and you called me a jerk. And while you were at the library, I went out and bought you a brand new pair of those shoes I knew you wanted, but that you didn't think we could afford. And you came back from the library with a stack of books you'd sneaked out and didn't even notice the damn shoes for hours. And I was so pissed that I left to get dinner and completely missed you finally seeing them. And when I got back, you scared the crap out of me by jumping up at me and hugging me and telling me I was great and the best brother ever. And I ended up dropping all the food, so the burgers were smashed. But it was completely worth it to see you practically glowing and grinning like an idiot, even though Dad was four days late and hadn't called. You remember what we did the last day?"

Sam convulsively nodded and a smile was trying to break through the pain, "S-sw-w-wimm-m-ming."

"Yup. We hot-wired that red mustang and drove it up to that lake, Lake Superior, I think? And we just spent the day jumping into that lake over and over, and it was freezing, even though it was the middle of August. But we kept going back out in the water and-"

He broke off as Sam started to seize, eyes rolling back in his head, back arching up off the ground. Dean grabbed at his back pocket, pulling out his wallet, before sticking it in Sam's mouth. "Bite down, Sammy! Bite down!" And then he held on for dear life as the amped up convulsions started throwing them around the room. Dean did his best to shield Sam, which meant he was the one who hit the toilet and the edge of the tub, and it was him flying back against the sink that broke it. Finally, after what seemed like hours, but was probably only minutes, Sam dropped limply back onto the floor, unconscious with stuttered breathing. Dean groaned and shook himself. He was bruised and bleeding, not to mention pretty sure he'd broken some ribs. But none of that was important. Only Sam was important.

With a powerful heave, he stood, Sam in his arms like a bride. He almost dropped Sam when he had to turn sideways to fit through the door, and somehow managed to hold on. Growling curses, he slowly limped over to the nearest bed and carefully set Sam down.

Sam was beginning to shiver. It didn't help that he was wearing only a towel. Dean strode across to the other bed and ripped off the top blanket. Carrying it back over, he bundled Sam in it like a cocoon. When Sam let out a quiet moan, Dean ignored his own injuries, lying down on the bed beside Sam and wrapping his arms around his little brother. Just like he used to whenever Sam had gotten sick when they were still kids.

He started talking again, and didn't stop, continuing through the night. He talked about everything and nothing, and that comforting string of words kept Sam sane as he drifted in and out of consciousness. It but through the hallucinations and the pain, making the symptoms that wracked his body and mind insignificant compared to his brother's voice.

It was nearly 9 a.m. the next morning that Sam finally drifted off into a more peaceful, easy sleep. Dean gave it an hour, then slowly pulled away, and sat up.

There was a twinge of protest from his ribs, but he pushed it aside and pulled out his phone, dialing a number he knew by heart. It rang twice, then a familiar, gruff voice answered. "Dean?"

"Bobby, I need your help."

"Okay, boy. What's goin' on?"

"It's Sammy. I know he hasn't been sucking blood from any demons, but he just went through all the effects of going cold turkey again. And I don't have a clue why the hell it's happening!"

"Okay, Dean, just calm down. I know you must be havin' a hard time goin' through this again, 'cause you sound like shit. But you need to think this through-"

"How the hell am I supposed to be calm, Bobby? I spent the past nineteen hours holding on to Sam while he twitched and hallucinated and screamed like a junkie who was dying without his fix!"

"Dean!"

He took a deep breath and tried to banish the panicked tone from his voice, "Sorry, Bobby. I just-"

"I know, boy, I know. I'm not sure what to tell you. Maybe this is some kinda side effect that's just gonna keep comin' back, from when he drank so much before he took out Lilith. Or maybe someone's screwin' with the both of you. I'll do some research on the after effects of regular addictions. Dunno if it'll do any good, but it's somethin' to try. What's the case you boys are workin' on again?"

Dean rubbed his eyes and answered tiredly, "It's looking like a witch. We found a hex bag at the home of the latest dead guy. I hate witches."

Bobby chuckled dryly, "With good reason." Then there was a pause before Bobby snarled, "Did you idjits check your hotel room for hex bags? 'Cause if this gal knows you're on her tail, there's a damn good chance she'd try to spell you two!"

"Oh, shit."

Dean dropped the phone and started tearing the room apart. Finally, he found it, tucked up under the frame of Sam's bed. It was black with a dark red symbol on it. Dean held it away from him like it carried the plague and grabbed up the phone again.

"Bobby, you still there?"

"Idjit! What's you find?"

"Hex bag. Black, with a red rune. I'm pretty sure it's... damn! What's the one that means "breaking down" and "weakness"?"

"Which rune set?"

"I'm pretty sure it's the one the Visigoths used. I think."

"Well, shit, boy. What's inside?"

"Should I open it, or should I just burn it?"

"Damn. You'd know more about this witch and be closer to catchin' her if you pulled out whatever's in there. But if it's what set off Sam, then you probably can't risk it. Shee-it." Dean heard Bobby sigh, and could picture the restless shrug that the father figure always seemed to make when he had to choose between two crappy courses of action. "Burn it, Dean. And when you find the bitch-"

"I'll give her your compliments and make sure she regrets messing with Sammy, before I send her screaming down to hell."

Bobby snorted. "Good. I'll keep lookin', just in case it's somethin' else. Lemme know if anything changes, you hear?"

"Got it, Bobby. Thanks."

"Idjits."

Dean shut off his phone, then pulled out his lighter and headed for the bathroom. He lit the bag on fire, dropped it in the tub, and glared down at the consuming, unnaturally colored flames, until only a pile of ashes remained. Hesitantly, he walked back in to the room and checked on Sam.

His brother looked normal, tan face calm in sleep, limbs naturally and casually spread out over the bed. Dean reached down and laid the back of his hand against Sam's forehead and wanted to collapse with relief. The dry heat that had been roasting Sam for hours was finally gone.

Slowly, he backed to the other bed and sat down, just watching Sam sleep.

A million memories of his little brother flashed through his head; happy times, sad times, times when they were angry, times when they were on the hunt. They were grown men now. They should have lives of their own. But Dean knew their Dad had tied them too tight. No matter what happened, no matter what choices they made, they would always be brothers. They would always need and trust each other more than anyone in the world. That was never going to change.

That thought gave Dean a sense of peace and hope that he hadn't felt in years. He hated the witch who had put Sam through this again, but now he had something to thank her for.

"Get some sleep, Sammy," he muttered. Then Dean lay back on his own bed and finally let himself fall asleep.

fin.


End file.
